


Sleeping Beauty

by Toastedbuckwheat



Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: Coma, Devotion, M/M, minimally conscious state
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 22:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13420533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toastedbuckwheat/pseuds/Toastedbuckwheat
Summary: A story about love so patient, so strong. About the man that keeps Alex going, even if the road is a circle.





	Sleeping Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> Dear all,
> 
> before reading, please know that the following story is very sad and mentions difficult subject of so called Minimally Conscious State, which - in short - might happen if someone awakes (in medical sense) from coma, but is only partially and inconsistently aware.

She called me a Jesus.   
You would have been proud of me if only you could see the spectacle of her face expression when she entered the room where her little daughter - a sunflower of a girl - was staring at her, crinkling her onyx eyes, confused by the colourful reality that she came back to.

But I am no god.

What woke her up was science, finest technology;   
what made me a good doctor was my own suffering,  
as in fact I am unable to make any miracles happen.

I had to give it all up; music used to be what validated my life, it was the only language I could speak and in which I could write my love spells - like the one that eventually connected us: two blithe, reckless souls. Remember the nights at that balcony wrapped in ancient climbers, the purple flowers of which seemed to filtrate the thick London air and emit pure essence of the springtime instead - I was so narcotised by its dainty scent that I began to see stars that had surely been hidden by the Milky Way of street lights - or maybe it was just your presence that turned my heart into pure gold - so heavy that I barely could take a single step. I always wished I was a guitar, with a smooth varnish and harmonious curves, so your hands would never leave me, making me sing hymns of love, of my passion, of fulfilling happiness. 

It has been ten years, Miles.  
Brought you some flowers. Can you feel? The same scent that - that night - got transmuted into the sweetest honey of  what was - is - between us; the honey I can still feel when I lick my lips;  
when I kiss you and your mouth responds, and your body relaxes, your breath synchronises with mine, automatically, mimicking the way it always used to happen  
Feel? Soft, slightly cold petals against your cheek

 (I'm so sorry I cut your skin, I know that you felt it, I can sense such things. Next time I will try the straight razor; you always preferred them to those disposable ones that give your sensitive face rash and scratches)

just like your hands when I don't touch them for a while so they turn back into dead limbs of a puppet, a doll I endlessly play with, taking care of you whenever I can - not that I don't trust the nurses and therapists who work with me - I am just sucking on every single moment of this residue of a dream about a life I wish I had with you.

So I come and brush your teeth,  
comb your hair  
massage your skin  
sing to you  
wash your body   
(remember those baths we'd always take together, as an hour apart from each other was always too long?)  
play you records  
flip you every hour so you wouldn't get bed sores (this alabaster skin of yours is so sensitive)  
talk for hours  
brush your teeth   
comb your hair   
feed you  
talk  
touch  
sing

kiss you

Every day.  
And sometimes, through the glass door of the room, after my shift is finished  
A nurse can watch that pitiable Jesus kneel  
and wet your chest with tears 

Because so many times they told me to give up that I almost started to believe them.

But you keep me going -

I worked hard to get all the possible knowledge, to raise funds, to open this bloody clinic. And all our successes, all the flower buds that are growing again - how egoistic does it sound! - are only side effects of my attempt to realise my only dream

Told you about that Jake lad. Similar story - severe head injury - it's been fifteen years since he fell into a coma, his family got used to the thought that it is pointless to rely on hope at this stage. Last month we implanted him a stimulating device, and the improvement is incredible - the reflexes are reappearing, he even started to react to the voices, and overall, he is slowly emerging from the depths.

And that's why I will never forgive her for telling me to stop  _wasting my life_ , to move forward. I will never forgive her for calling you a  _vegetable_. It breaks my heart to even imagine the loneliness and sorrow of a person trapped in their body - I would never walk away from you. I would never leave you alone in the darkness.

Because whenever the sound of my wobbly footsteps echoes in the long corridor, observing the shadow existing thanks to the lights so dim as though they could interrupt  _someone's sleep_

I walk into the room and find you with your face turned towards the door,  
your eyes are open,   
directed at me

An ultimate proof that there is still  _you_ behind their glossy surface

My Sleeping Beauty

But then the doubts come,  
I get lured by a thought:  
What if we both simply died that day?

There would be no pain in my leg,  
No sadness piercing my heart like a red-hot nail whenever I see you

Just you and me, floating like cherry blossom petals carried by the wind  
Or pleasingly non-existing

But now  
Along with you  
I'm suspended in a deep sleep   
waiting until we both wake up and run back into the sunbeams of a spring day that we once abandoned  
Waiting ever so patiently.

Are you with me?  
Because tomorrow again I will try to play Jesus.

I will try once again.


End file.
